


the things you bury in the dark

by kuro49



Series: small town murder mystery 'verse [2]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU
Genre: Alternate Universe - Small Town, Drabble, M/M, Multi, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-04
Updated: 2018-09-04
Packaged: 2019-07-06 06:20:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15880308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuro49/pseuds/kuro49
Summary: There is a gravity to Gotham that takes hold and pulls and pulls and pulls. None of them are exceptions to this rule.





	the things you bury in the dark

**Author's Note:**

> an outtake of the main fic but like infinitely sappier. 
> 
> prompt: things you hide

 

There is a gravity to Gotham that takes hold and pulls and pulls and pulls.

Tim is no different, he makes the trip back to this place every other weekend before he makes the move permanently.

 

A month after his graduation, Tim finds himself here again in this loft above the garage for good this time. There is a good portion of the living room dedicated to his unpacked boxes even if half his things are strewn across the home he is making this one out to be. And almost as an afterthought, Tim asks, out loud like this is only occurring to him now.

(It isn't, they all know but they like to entertain him all the same, and it is very sweet of them both.)

“What ever happened to moral obligations?”

Dick’s stifled snort of laughter is really answer enough but where Dick is kind, Jason can be kinder in that roundabout way that draws Tim in like a live wire.

“Baby bird,” Jason starts with exactly one soap-suds soaked glove out of the water and one eyebrow raised, “I think something along the lines of too little too late?”

Dick doesn’t say anything else from where he is sitting at their rickety little dining table, reading a very rough draft of what would be Tim’s application to the Gotham Gazette. He doesn't need to, his mouth simply curling into the sweetest smile at Tim's soft  _huh_ as he circles a typo in red pen.

 

The Gotham Cemetery is filled up for a good reason, buried bodies are a dime a dozen. Warm bodies are a little bit different. Dick can count on one hand, two fingers really, and he hides them like they are some kind of treasure he keeps close to heart.

Luck has nothing to do with why they stay though even when Tim is complicit, Jason is an accomplice, and Dick is guilty on all accounts.

 

When Dick wakes up with Tim curled in on himself to his left and Jason on the other side, draped close enough for him to feel the heat coming off of him like a second skin, it feels a whole lot like some kind of dream. He shifts, gets closer and can count down to the exact moment Jason wakes up.

“Are you pinching yourself?”

In the dark of the curtains pulled tight over the windows, Jason’s voice is rough with sleep, bleary eyes barely squinting open in the dim start of what will be dawn.

Dick has to bite back a grin because, “yeah, Jay. I am.”

Tim is still, is silent, and the two of them are taken to that. When Dick reaches out to card his fingers through Tim’s hair, Tim might lean into it but he sleeps right through it. And Dick loves that too. There is no shame for him to admit to being a damn lucky man. 

“Sap.” Jason says at the stupidly happy expression on Dick’s face but it is mangled in a yawn.

Dick turns his head to brush his mouth across Jason’s bare shoulder in answer, an agreement aimed right back at Jason because Dick knows he isn’t going to be the one to bring them breakfast in bed in another three hours. That is all Jason Peter Todd.

 

Dick pulls him closer, holds him tighter, and Jason goes pliant in his arms.

Unlike all those long dark nights that came before where Dick cannot do a single thing again when he finds himself seeing the harsh drudge of air Jason struggles to drag into his lungs in shallow little gasps. Tight curl of his shoulders turned in on themselves, that canvas of scars pulled taut across skin, their sheets drenching in cold sweat while Jason’s nightmares came in _parts_.

Helplessness is as good a motivator as any other.

The moment Jack Napier goes still beneath his hands, Dick knows he has done an indescribable thing.

And he is glad for it.

 

(“Jay,” he tells him that same night, “I think I love you.”

Thinking now, that is most definitely what gave him away to start with.)

 


End file.
